And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.

I

I sat with Love upon a woodside well,
Leaning across the water, I and he;
Nor ever did he speak nor looked at me,
But touched his lute wherein was audible
The certain secret thing he had to tell:
Only our mirrored eyes met silently
In the low wave; and that sound came to be
The passionate voice I knew; and my tears fell.

And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers;
And with his foot and with his wing-feathers
He swept the spring that watered my heart’s drouth.
Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair,
And as I stooped, her own lips rising there
Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth.


II

And now Love sang: but his was such a song,
So meshed with half-remembrance hard to free,
As souls disused in death’s sterility
May sing when the new birthday tarries long.
And I was made aware of a dumb throng
That stood aloof, one form by every tree,
All mournful forms, for each was I or she,
The shades of those our days that had no tongue.

They looked on us, and knew us and were known;
While fast together, alive from the abyss,
Clung the soul-wrung implacable close kiss;
And pity of self through all made broken moan
Which said, ‘For once, for once, for once alone!’
And still Love sang, and what he sang was this:—


III

‘O ye, all ye that walk in Willow-wood,
That walk with hollow faces burning white;
What fathom-depth of soul-struck widowhood,
What long, what longer hours, one lifelong night,
Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooed
Your last hope lost, who so in vain invite
Your lips to that their unforgotten food,
Ere ye, ere ye again shall see the light!

Alas! the bitter banks in Willowwood,
With tear-spurge wan, with blood-wort burning red:
Alas! if ever such a pillow could
Steep deep the soul in sleep till she were dead,—
Better all life forget her than this thing,
That Willowwood should hold her wandering!’


IV

So sang he: and as meeting rose and rose
Together cling through the wind’s wellaway
Nor change at once, yet near the end of day
The leaves drop loosened where the heart-stain glows,—
So when the song died did the kiss unclose;
And her face fell back drowned, and was as grey
As its grey eyes; and if it ever may
Meet mine again I know not if Love knows.

Only I know that I leaned low and drank
A long draught from the water where she sank,
Her breath and all her tears and all her soul:
And as I leaned, I know I felt Love’s face
Pressed on my neck with moan of pity and grace,
Till both our heads were in his aureole.

The closest I ever feel
to anything
is to the words I write.
When I am a million leagues
into the depths,
and there is nothing,
nothing to do
but carve these letters
into the floor.
No,
nothing.
Nothing more.
Words ring hollow,
and melodies fall flat,
prayers (un)heard,
another test.
This too will pass,
but while it stays,
while it tarries,
black is bequeathed behind
my eyes
my mind is marred
in manic peril
and I carve these words
into the floor
one more time
one more time
once more.

Within the gentle heart abideth Love,
As doth a bird within green forest glade,
Neither before the gentle heart was Love,
Nor Love ere gentle heart by Nature made.
Created was the sun,
And lo, his radiance everywhere held sway,
Nor was before the sun;
Love doth unto all gentleness aspire,
And in the self-same way
Doth clarity unto clear flame of fire.
     Love’s fire is kindled in the gentle heart,
As virtue is within the precious stone;
From out the star no glory doth depart
Until made gentle by the sun alone.
When the sun hath drawn forth
By his own strength all that which is not meet,
The star doth prove its worth.
Thus to the heart, by Nature fashioned so
Gentle and pure and sweet,
The love of woman like a star doth go.
     The reason Love in gentle heart doth stay
Is why the fire unto the torch-head flies,
Burning as he doth fancy, bright and gay,
And were too proud to do so otherwise.
But Nature’s cruel scheme
Contrasteth Love as water, flame; as heat,
Quelled by the cooling stream.
In gentle heart doth Love his bower divine,
Since like with like must meet,
Thus diamonds in the iron of the mine.
     Upon the mire the sun sheds his bright rays,
That is still vile, nor doth the sun turn cold:
“Gentle am I by birth,” the proud man says.
33 He, mire, and the sun, gentleness, I hold.
Let no man think that he
May be possessed of gentleness, although
He boast a king’s degree,
Unless a gentle heart be found in him:
The water is aglow
With stars, and yet the heavens have not grown dim.
     God the Creator in heaven’s mind of grace
Shines brighter than before our eyes the sun;
There it is given to see Him face to face,
Whence in their beauty the skies, serving one
Just God, to Him do turn
And the blest end of primal love fulfil.
Thus the truth which doth burn
In my sweet Lady’s eyes she should make clear,
Of her own gentle will,
To him who in her service tarries near.
     My Lady, God will say: “Didst thou not fear,”
(When my soul standeth yonder in His sight:)
“To pass the heavens and seek Me even here,
Vain love pursuing with My image dight?
To Me doth praise belong
And to the Queen of Heaven, who from her sphere
Of glory endeth wrong.”
Then I could plead: “Thy angels up above,
O Lord, like her appear;
I did not sin in giving her my love.”

There's blood between us, love, my love,
There's father's blood, there's brother's blood;
And blood's a bar I cannot pass.
I choose the stairs that mount above,
Stair after golden sky-ward stair,
To city and to sea of glass.
My lily feet are soiled with mud,
With scarlet mud which tells a tale
Of hope that was, of guilt that was,
Of love that shall not yet avail;
Alas, my heart, if I could bare
My heart, this selfsame stain is there:
I seek the sea of glass and fire
To wash the spot, to burn the snare;
Lo, stairs are meant to lift us higher:
Mount with me, mount the kindled stair.

Your eyes look earthward, mine look up.
I see the far-off city grand,
Beyond the hills a watered land,
Beyond the gulf a gleaming strand
Of mansions where the righteous sup;
Who sleep at ease among their trees,
Or wake to sing a cadenced hymn
With Cherubim and Seraphim.
They bore the Cross, they drained the cup,
Racked, roasted, crushed, wrenched limb from limb,
They the offscouring of the world:
The heaven of starry heavens unfurled,
The sun before their face is dim.

You looking earthward, what see you?
Milk-white, wine-flushed among the vines,
Up and down leaping, to and fro,
Most glad, most full, made strong with wines,
Blooming as peaches pearled with dew,
Their golden windy hair afloat,
Love-music warbling in their throat,
Young men and women come and go.

You linger, yet the time is short:
Flee for your life, gird up your strength
To flee; the shadows stretched at length
Show that day wanes, that night draws nigh;
Flee to the mountain, tarry not.
Is this a time for smile and sigh,
For songs among the secret trees
Where sudden blue birds nest and sport?
The time is short and yet you stay:
To-day, while it is called to-day,
Kneel, wrestle, knock, do violence, pray;
To-day is short, to-morrow night:
Why will you die?  why will you die?

You sinned with me a pleasant sin:
Repent with me, for I repent.
Woe's me the lore I must unlearn!
Woe's me the easy way we went,
So rugged when I would return!
How long until my sleep begin,
How long shall stretch these nights and days?
Surely, clean Angels cry, she prays;
She laves her soul with tedious tears:
How long must stretch these years and years?

I turn from you my cheeks and eyes,
My hair which you shall see no more--
Alas for joy that went before,
For joy that dies, for love that dies!
Only my lips still turn to you,
My livid lips that cry, Repent!
O weary life, O weary Lent,
O weary time whose stars are few!
How should I rest in Paradise,
Or sit on steps of heaven alone?
If Saints and Angels spoke of love,
Should I not ansnwer from my throne,
Have pity upon me, ye my friends,
For I have heard the sound thereof.
Should I not turn with yearning eyes,
Turn earthwards with a pitiful pang?
Oh save me from a pang in heaven!
By all the gifts we took and gave,
Repent, repent, and be forgiven.
This life is long, but yet it ends;
Repent and purge your soul and save:
No gladder song the morning stars
Upon their birthday morning sang
Than Angels sing when one repents.

I tell you what I dreamed last night.
A spirit with transfigured face
Fire-footed clomb an infinite space.
I heard his hundred pinions clang,
Heaven-bells rejoicing rang and rang,
Heaven-air was thrilled with subtle scents,
Worlds spun upon their rushing cars:
He mounted shrieking "Give me light!"
Still light was poured on him, more light;
Angels, Archangels he outstripped,
Exultant in exceeding might,
And trod the skirts of Cherubim.
Still "Give me light," he shrieked; and dipped
His thirsty face, and drank a sea,
Athirst with thirst it could not slake.
I saw him, drunk with knowledge take

From aching brows the aureole crown--
His locks writhe like a cloven snake--
He left his throne to grovel down
And lick the dust of Seraphs' feet:
For what is knowledge duly weighed?
Knowledge is strong, but love is sweet;
Yea all the progress he had made
Was but to learn that all is small
Save love, for love is all in all.

I tell you what I dreamed last night.
It was not dark, it was not light,
Cold dews had drenched my plenteous hair
Through clay; you came to seek me there,
And "Do you dream of me?" you said.
My heart was dust that used to leap
To you; I answered half asleep:
"My pillow is damp, my sheets are red,
There's a leaden tester to my bed:
Find you a warmer playfellow,
A warmer pillow for your head,
A kinder love to love than mine."
You wrung your hands: while I, like lead,
Crushed downwards through the sodden earth:
You smote your hands but not in mirth,
And reeled but were not drunk with wine.

For all night long I dreamed of you:
I woke and prayed against my will,
Then slept to dream of you again.
At length I rose and knelt and prayed.
I cannot write the words I said,
My words were slow, my tears were few;
But through the dark my silence spoke
Like thunder.  When this morning broke,
My face was pinched, my hair was grey,
And frozen blood was on the sill
Where stifling in my struggle I lay.

If now you saw me you would say:
Where is the face I used to love?
And I would answer: Gone before;
It tarries veiled in Paradise.
When once the morning star shall rise,
When earth with shadow flees away
And we stand safe within the door,
Then you shall lift the veil thereof.
Look up, rise up: for far above
Our palms are grown, our place is set;
There we shall meet as once we met,
And love with old familiar love.

"Croak, croak, croak,"
Thus the Raven spoke,
Perched on his crooked tree
As hoarse as hoarse could be.
Shun him and fear him,
Lest the Bridegroom hear him;
Scout him and rout him
With his ominous eye about him.

Yet, "Croak, croak, croak,"
Still tolled from the oak;
From that fatal black bird,
Whether heard or unheard:
"O ship upon the high seas,
Freighted with lives and spices,
Sink, O ship," croaked the Raven:
"Let the Bride mount to heaven."

In a far foreign land
Upon the wave-edged sand,
Some friends gaze wistfully
Across the glittering sea.
"If we could clasp our sister,"
Three say, "now we have missed her!"
"If we could kiss our daughter!"
Two sigh across the water.

O, the ship sails fast,
With silken flags at the mast,
And the home-wind blows soft;
But a Raven sits aloft,
Chuckling and choking,
Croaking, croaking, croaking:--
Let the beacon-fire blaze higher;
Bridegroom, watch; the Bride draws nigher.

On a sloped sandy beach,
Which the spring-tide billows reach,
Stand a watchful throng
Who have hoped and waited long:
"Fie on this ship, that tarries
With the priceless freight it carries.
The time seems long and longer:
O languid wind, wax stronger";--

Whilst the Raven perched at ease
Still croaks and does not cease,
One monotonous note
Tolled from his iron throat:
"No father, no mother,
But I have a sable brother:
He sees where ocean flows to,
And he knows what he knows, too."

A day and a night
They kept watch worn and white;
A night and a day
For the swift ship on its way:
For the Bride and her maidens,--
Clear chimes the bridal cadence,--
For the tall ship that never
Hove in sight forever.

On either shore, some
Stand in grief loud or dumb
As the dreadful dread
Grows certain though unsaid.
For laughter there is weeping,
And waking instead of sleeping,
And a desperate sorrow
Morrow after morrow.

O, who knows the truth,
How she perished in her youth,
And like a queen went down
Pale in her royal crown?
How she went up to glory
From the sea-foam chill and hoary,
From the sea-depth black and riven
To the calm that is in Heaven?

They went down, all the crew,
The silks and spices too,
The great ones and the small,
One and all, one and all.
Was it through stress of weather,
Quicksands, rocks, or all together?
Only the Raven knows this,
And he will not disclose this.--

After a day and a year
The bridal bells chime clear;
After a year and a day
The Bridegroom is brave and gay:
Love is sound, faith is rotten;
The old Bride is forgotten:--
Two ominous Ravens only
Remember, black and lonely.

There fared a time ‘we’ were the vital thing,
yet now the case is fair it’s ye and her.
My role perhaps was harrower of Winter
while she’s the water, seed and sun of Spring.
God forms right plans and sorts His unique tools
as junctures of our lives wed intertwined,
but when they’re o’er we are not undermined
nor forced to feel we’re slyly played as fools.
For Providence has granted precious gifts
which by His grace we learn and grow and flow’r,
and these need ne’er be lost in parting hour                                              
nor poisoned by the bitterness of rifts.
So rise our wings with richer, brighter hue
to soar upon Christ’s love which tarries true.

What care I, so they stand the same,—
Things of the heavenly mind,—
How long the power to give them fame
Tarries yet behind?

Thus far to-day your favors reach,
O fair, appeasing Presences!
Ye taught my lips a single speech,
And a thousand silences.

Space grants beyond his fated road
No inch to the god of day,
And copious language still bestowed
One word, no more, to say.

Sometimes I imagine
Sasquatch on my porch;
A watchman
For my home.

Eyes open wide-
-He peers down the road,
Making sure
We are safe.

From the break of dawn
To streetlights turning on
Sasquatch tarries.
Always watching.

He sees the deer;
He sees the neighbors;
He sees the mouse
Running from her car

To beneath our deck
Where he stands;
But Sasquatch
Does not stop him.

He just stands there
Watching,
Waiting,
Staring down the street...

Hoping
-Maybe one day
He will come alive
To stop the mouse.

There he was
Laying on his back bleeding
Grass beneath him
In the median, lifeless
Hat still on his head

Quickly I prayed
Breath return to his lungs
Capture the air that now fails him
Heart layed dormant
Not a sound in the chambers

All is still
As the calm before the storm
In the eye of the hurricane
No sounds to be heard
No sense of movement

False sense on serenity
Though now in perfect peace
He rests while sirens blaze
Love that is unfailing
As he sleeps now surround him

Thoughts of his family
On his arrival they wait
Path crossed unaware
They may anger he tarries
Sudden yearning in their hearts

Together we all came
Unable to continue our journeys
Affected by this sight
In this untimely death
Humanity we found

But where were we all
When no one watched
Making sure he safely crossed
In such a hurry we always are
We rather **** than a minute late arrive

Guilt now encircles your soul
Consumed by your mistake
An accident, never you meant to harm
Dreams that now haunt
Blunder everlasting

Slow down dear love
Our brothers are running
His mother is crying
Her son she's buried
Memories of him now fading

There was a time
when time was not time—-
For me,
For you.
The water it collects and tarries
Carries itself.

you whisper
“stay”
my thoughts linger to go

~~~
Tis a gladness found in sadness
mostly pleasure
wince of pain
From an odor round the barroom
none the boys could e'er explain
Like a billowed line of washin'
after gentle fallen rain
Tis the wail of spring befallin'
on a barfly
oh ... the shame
~
Lo
there's homework
I'm the tender
to a list of things that broke
Ere the boss be sharing surely
words no poet ever spoke
Lazy good for nothing ******
paint the fence and fix the gate
You want a pint ... you must be kidding
Plow the forty ... 'fore it's late
~
Down the misty path of memories
thoughts of Kelsey's brew appears
In a vision almost godly
round a table rests my peers
And no memory tarries longer
forceful
clearer
sweeter
stronger
than ol' Kelsey pouring liquor at the bar
I sheds a tear
~
Summer sadness tans bare shoulders
to replace the winter's shun
And the kids each day
they greet me ... Morning Dad
YOUR IT ... then run
Lord
I never knew that Heaven
'twas the place beyond my wall
Till I heard my children laugh
while toasting mallows in the fall
~
Though breath of Heaven
washed the aftertaste
of Kelsey's from my life
And forever I'll be holding ... dear
new memories
with my wife
I am angered at the sign
that hangs atop ol' Kelsey's door
. . . NO BARFLIES . . .
. . . CASH RESPECTED . . .
~
Sure
His wife now runs the bar
~~~

Don’t try to inspire me,
When you yourself need inspiration.
Droplets everywhere,
He lays down,
Without a care.
Forceful earthquakes,
Shatters his mind.
Volcanoes erupt,
What a strong write.
Enthusiasm leaps,
Anger prevails.
He chuckles,
And evil laughs.
No one can hear.
Determined to conquer,
Yet struggles to arise.
Restless in his motion,
Tear glands to dry to cry.
Feast on the creatures,
That he can see.
Roll over from those,
That he can hear,
But can’t see.
Driven by fear,
But afraid to love.
Tarries in the dark,
As the stars lit,
The sky above.
The moon never in sight,
It’s always night.

©

but my still, heavily-beating heart

just longs for a little more—

unsatisfied

with what is graciously given.

and yet-

appeased by things all too simple

not to enjoy.

where my cravings lie,

my assuagement lie elsewhere—

in Your word &

in Your people.

so as I sit & wait for the

signal Lights to beckon,

a sojourner among its radiance,

I will instead turn to meet the Bridegroom

who tarries for me

at the other end of the ocean.

Hope
is a benchwarmer,
a mere spectator-
wistful as the game tarries,
useless as a goal jockey.

Poised on current of splendor
Flight feathers outstretched, strong
Fledgling hears his mother's call
Brave release draws baby bird to song

Swooping beyond slipping branches
Resplendence in clear air carries
Joy of freedom from high nest
Moment in waiting no long tarries

Whisp of breeze in taking
With life pulsing heart and wings
A humming bird can't pretend
That he is at all another thing

Constant is our evolution
And rainbows do reappear
Some encircling breathtaking beauty
These ruby-throated dears

Hum and buzz of fluttery wonder
Nectar is yours for taking
Joie de vivre as you spin by me
Jouissance and felicity making

You whisper in my ear and tickle
Tempting words for me
You know my meaning may be fickle
As I find, you've set me free

Life is but a passing daydream,
that seldom does make sense.
I often wonder if I should wake,
what memories carry hence?

Yesterday a fuzzy recollection.
Tomorrow a cloudy ocean.
Today as clear as clear can be,
as preconceived as any notion.

Understanding is sometimes found,
when clarity meets truth,
but its hard to say if it was real,
once time and space have moved.

Life is lived by a routine,
that seldom ever varies.
My thoughts are often found,
where routine seldom tarries.

I awake some days to find,
the yoke of expectation
****** upon my shoulders
without want of explanation.

Hours of those days grind by,    
in meaningless frustration.
Watching my potential pass,
while occupied by occupation.

The yearning to be free,
that stirs within my soul.
Is gently lulled asleep again,
by pastimes I am sold.

Life is but a passing daydream,
that seldom does make sense.
I often wonder if I should wake,
what memories carry hence?

"And his voice carried on."
The words echo like a spirit through the air of the desert land.
They continued the search for him at every dawn.
All that's endured are legends of this special man.

The village awaits, while the trekkers search ... And search. They tarry on.

Spent, they return as the sun sets ... The town chants: "And his voice carried on."

What was once a world of blue and green is now arid & bare.
Society collapsed under the weight of false ideologies and greed.
Souls are choked in the grasp of a common stare.
They starve for truth more than any carnal need.

And his voice carried on.

They've heard his words are power.
They've been told his voice has golden wings.
They've heard his essence towers.
They've been told and told ... They've never seen ... They've only been told these things.

Civilization is naught but a sentient species stained.
Only a village remains.

The villages tarries on.

They used to scorn him.
Now they mourn him.

The trekkers search on,
In pursuit of the fountains that flow from his speech.
As the people thirst on,
Desperate for the day he comes within reach.

He is alive.

And he is free.

He thrives.

I know it ...

Because I am he.

The last poet.


And his voice carries on.

A flurry descends
Upon this town
Like a snow globe
Shaken up and down.
Given time
It does settle
Disappearing on
Glass and metal.
And when it stops
Then starts again
Squalls abreast
All down the glen
The clouds will tumble
And grey the dome
--Above the sky
--Above this home,
The winds, they sway
The wire of phones
The sun that shines
Once was not shone
While snow once more
Flung to the air
Where it lingers and tarries there
Then to rest on house and stone
To claim the earth that was its own
My fingers retract from the window pane
To watch it start
Then stop again.

And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.

in the humble showers
of the gibbous moon,
on the marble floor,
the white-feathers cat
tarries her sojourn
in the kitchen.
she can scoot there,
the door is open and
the milk is hanging from
the branches upto her height.
no, her innocrnce chains her legs
to go through the music anytime.
in her life, she has learnt
the moonlight is always snow
as it never mingles with darkness.

My whole little world sat down on a blanket.
Cushion of grass below.

Happy gaze of their mother had not sank yet.
Feeling the breeze that blows.

Favorite snacks all packed, arrang'd just so.
Smiling eyes excitement.

Small hints of growth, faces are quite chang'd though.
My sweet enlightenment.

Heavy burdens and sorrow bravely carries
Good Mothers do.

Shelter this innocence as it tarries
Showing love true.

Heartstrings so delicate needing tender care
Never to abuse.

Forever I wish to stay there, as then their
Smiling muse

Avoiding magic,
Elf, and bowl...
Nothing’s tragic
If made whole

Avoidance carries
Heavy loads
The miracle tarries,
Mind implodes

But winged creatures
Want dire things
Say earnest preachers
Who pull off wings

Perhaps the church
Should be avoided
And left in a lurch
As Christ destroyed it

When he read
From the scroll
Turns of head
All eyes did roll

The spirit is upon me
I’ve been anointed
To set captives free
I’ve been appointed

And as he put the scroll away
He uttered aloud, almost in song:
“These words are fulfilled in me today”,
Infuriating the offended throng

Leaving chins
Upon the floor
Churchy grins
Appear no more

They move as one
To chase him off;
To Him, what fun,
The shout and scoff

He looked not proud
On the brow of the hill
Passed through crowd
All felt a chill

For this, perhaps
Is how He loved
The cards collapsed
And all were moved

You feel you are the only
But there are many, socially distanced:
Unseen and unknown, gifted but imprisoned;
For the time is not yet, but it tarries not:
In half a time and not the fullness thereof.
Today is not a strange day;
That day will be when two are agreed,
And heaven, the sun, moon and stars
Fall down and bow low to Man.

I love my jimjam
Jabama jabamers  
You calls ‘em PJs
Some call ‘em pajamas

My jimjams are old
And all busted up
There’s a hole in the sleeve
Where my elbow snuck

But they still fit well
Real snug as can be
Though threads from my cuffs
Do dip in my tea

But the buttons still hold
And the pocket still carries
They keeps me warm at night
When the winter tarries

So I pop on my jimjams
‘For I hop into bed
And I curl up real tight
Once my prayers are said

I love my jimjam
Jabama jabamers
You calls ‘em PJs
Some call ‘em pajamas